The Moonstone and Miss Jones

by Jillian Stone

  Once inside the motorcar she snuggled against him. “Odd, isn’t it? The street names and building are completely familiar and yet so entirely foreign.”

  Phaeton grinned. “Like a waking dream. Have you noticed the shop signs aren’t reading backward anymore?”

  She glanced out the window at the flashy shops along Oxford. “At least it doesn’t feel like we’re in Slovakia.”

  “Look, down there.” Phaeton pointed to a narrow side street in shambles. “Parts of the city are fragmenting, or as Gaspar puts it, unraveling. And yet business goes on as usual.” He spoke quietly. “Farther south, around Piccadilly, I saw signs of street conflict. You’d think there’d be mass hysteria.”

  “Perhaps they’re used to it,” she said. The bleak looking row was swept out of sight as the cab moved on. “Tim mentioned Reaper patrols—have you seen them?”

  “Jersey and I managed to elude one at the Orchid Lounge. We escaped up the backstairs.”

  America turned to him, eyes bright. “Are you taking me there—tonight?”

  Phaeton’s eyes crinkled. “Perhaps—if you select a new frock that shows off plenty of leg.”

  Her smile was permanent, until she took one look at the price tags in Mr. McQueen’s shop. She looked up. “This can’t be right.” The simple sparkling dress—if one could call something this plain and short a dress—was eight hundred pounds. Even Phaeton appeared stunned.

  She grabbed him by the arm and they tried the shop next door, Domenico & Stefano. “It would seem the dressmakers in the Outremer are either Italian or Scot.” Inside, however, the prices were just as shocking. “How disappointing.” America turned to leave but something had already caught Phaeton’s eye. “Hold on.”

  A lovely deep violet dress hung against the wall at the back of the shop. The bodice of dress was cut exactly like a corset, while the skirt was made up of several layers of sheer fabric embedded with tiny glittering stones sprinkled about.

  “Isn’t it divine?” America whirled around to confront a shop girl, who did not seem nearly as intimidating as the prices in this establishment. For one thing she and America were a similar skin color.

  Phaeton cranked up the charm. “We were to attend a costume party that was cancelled last minute. Thought we might stay in town, perhaps do a bit of clubbing. Might you have a frock in the house that doesn’t cost five years’ wages?”

  The shop girl fished for the tag on the purple dress and came up squealing. “Fifty percent off!”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  PHAETON WAITED FOR AMERICA OUTSIDE THE DRESSING ROOM. He tugged a silver pull on a black leather jacket, with a number of closed pockets angled all over it. The jacket opened. Fascinated, he ran the pull up and down the track of tiny metal teeth. A young man carrying a small stepladder and a new dress breezed by. “Zippers galore!” He winked at Phaeton.

  Methodically moving from one zipper to the next, Phaeton pulled each one up and down until he had explored the entire jacket.

  The young man arranging the dress on the wall seemed amused. Feeling a bit gauche, Phaeton sauntered over to a table of luggage. Handbags the shop girl had called them.

  “What do you think?”

  He pivoted at the sound of America’s voice and swallowed.

  He had always loved her in violet. The color seemed to bring out a peachy glow to her tawny skin. But this was stunning. “You are a vision, my love.”

  She had taken her hair down and a mass of curls fell across her shoulders. The corset fit perfectly, adding just the right amount of plumpness to her bosom. A man could still enjoy the slope of her breasts and, when she breathed, imagine the nipple.

  “Phaeton!” America twirled around and the dress lifted high up her thighs. She wore dark stockings that shimmered—and went all the way up—well he wasn’t actually sure where the hose stopped. All he knew was, America Jones had legs that went on forever.

  “Stilettos.” She pointed to her shoes and spun around. He realized she was standing on stilts.

  “Aptly named. Can you walk—better yet will you be able to dance?”

  She looked up at him, eyes glowing with anticipation. “Oh, I do hope so!”

  “I’m not done yet.” The shop girl led them over to a counter and dusted America’s cheeks with peachy bronze powder, then did something dark and smoldering to her eyes. “Wait, lips!” She brushed glossy substance over her lips.

  America turned to him.“You are a goddess, my love.”

  “You need to kiss him for that,” the girl advised.

  She quirked a brow.

  “If my boyfriend called me a goddess he’d be getting tongue right about now.”

  Phaeton slid his gaze from the shop girl to America. She stepped into his arms and kissed him—soft, slippery bites that tasted like . . . strawberry. She slid her tongue into his mouth and he was instantly hard as stone.

  Distantly he heard the shop girl’s voice. “When you’re ready—meet me in the front of the store; I’ll ring you up.”

  He broke off the kiss. “Be sure to include some of that strawberry. . .”

  The girl already had the items in hand. “No worries, love.”

  He rocked America in his arms. “Ready for a bit of booty rubbing?”

  “Eight and a half Queen’s Yard.” Phaeton tossed their bag on the floor of the cab and stifled the urge to climb on top of America. Instead, he pulled her close. “I’d like nothing more than to be deep inside you with your legs in the air.” He nuzzled her cheek. “But I believe I will let you drive me mad this evening.”

  His hand slipped over her stomach. “The wrap that Tim made for you and Pea, are you—?”

  America smiled, “I’m using it as a kind of petticoat.”

  “It’s very possible we might have a slight interruption this evening.”

  “You could be called into a meeting, or something worse.” America frowned. “A lap dance with Velvet Ryder.”

  He pulled her close and watched that lovely mouth twist itself into a pout. “If we have a daughter, she is going to be very beautiful.” She slanted her gaze toward him. “Pea will also be strong and wicked smart, just like her mother.” His eyes dropped to the dimple emerging on her cheek. “And if Pea is a boy . . .” The cab slowed and made a turn into Queen’s Yard. The driver pulled in front of the club.

  Phaeton paid the driver, and noticed he wore a red turban. Something oddly familiar—then it struck him. “You were our driver, a few days ago.”

  The man stared at him.

  “You lost the Reapers. Dropped us off in Whitehall . . . near the Horse Guards Hotel.”

  The driver took his money. “I’ve done my share of eluding the patrols.”

  Phaeton nodded. “And if I asked you to come back for us at midnight?”

  The man nodded. “Then I’d be here, sir.”

  Phaeton took up the satchel and met America at the top of the stairs. Already the deep bass rhythm vibrated up through the steps and into every cell of his body. The doorman lifted a velvet rope and waved them in.

  “Welcome to the Orchid Lounge,” the greeter said.

  Phaeton paid the cover charge and checked their bag. “This way, darling.” He took her hand and pressed through a crush of dancers. Inching along they passed a man bobbing to the beat in a booth with flashing lights. Phaeton hadn’t noticed this person before. The chap seemed to fancy himself a kind of master of ceremonies, spouting a nonsensical rhyming commentary. The character eyeballed America. “I see you’re lookin’ fly tonight. Two more for the dance floor.”

  Phaeton found a spot at the center of the undulating bodies. He pulled her close and she immediately began to rock her hips with his.

  “Feel the rhythm—all fresh and funky,” the jabberwocky behind the glass crooned.

  Adding a few new steps of her own, America ground against him. Phaeton sucked in a bit of air. He knew she was going to be good at this free style of dancing, but this was truly—inspired. Mesmerized, he wat
ched the sway of her hips as she turned a slow circle.

  She bumped into a strapping young male, who turned around and returned the bump only to frighten her away. Phaeton stepped between them and slipped his knee between her legs. “Nothing to fear, darling.” He pulled her up against his thigh, and her hips connected with his. Her eyelids lowered with desire, as she arched away. He loved the way her breasts moved within the confines of the deep violet corset.

  A lone figure caught his eye—a familiar someone. Phaeton growled. He was aroused. He wished to stay that way for the duration of the evening. Hardly a chance of that—now that Gaspar Sinclair was headed straight for them.

  He opened his arms and America stepped into his embrace. “I need a drink—possibly several.” He guided her off the dance floor and into a throng of thirsty patrons standing three deep at the bar. Phaeton suddenly understood what the jabberwocky meant by “last call—two for one.” A space opened up and he ordered three shots and an iced ginger ale. Leaning against the bar. America was all eyes, as she took in the club. When the music shifted from one tune to another, she moved her shoulders up and down in perfect mimicry of a couple on the dance floor. She leaned in close. “I say this is wonderful fun, but so . . .”

  “Decadent?” He handed her a glass of ginger ale and downed his first shot. It was enough to take the edge off—for starters.

  “You really shouldn’t try to hide from me, Phaeton.”

  He sighed. “I wasn’t hiding, I was avoiding.” He turned to face the leader of the Shades. “You’re looking dapper Gaspar. I see you’re dressed for this world.”

  Tim had mentioned Gaspar was sick from too much exposure to the Outremer. Phaeton looked him up and down. A bit wan perhaps, but the man’s world weary grin and crinkled eyes turned genuinely appreciative when his gaze fell on America.

  “The dress is lovely, my dear, and you are breathtaking. I understand you are celebrating a belated birthday.”

  Phaeton knocked back his second shot. “Belated because you and Lovecraft conspired to have me shanghaied and brought back to London.” He shook his head. “Tim Noggy told you where to find us, didn’t he? The rotund rat bastard.”

  Gaspar shrugged. “I had to torture him.”

  “Not hard. Just take his fish and chips away.” Phaeton was livid. “And you’re not here to wish America well. You’re here nosing about in my business.”

  Gaspar nodded a bow to America. “Many happy returns.”

  Phaeton exhaled. “Can I buy you something? They have eighteen-year-old Talisker’s here . . .” He swallowed the last dram and nailed Gaspar. “The message said come alone.”

  The man raised a brow. “But you didn’t come alone. You brought your lovely paramour. If you meet with someone tonight, I shall stay with America.” He turned to her. “May I call you by your given name?

  “Please.” She smiled.

  Phaeton eyeballed her, and she eyed him right back. He leaned close. “Are you certain you don’t mind?”

  She nodded. “I’ll be fine.”

  Phaeton let his tensions ease slightly. He supposed a backup as well as someone to guard America was not a terrible idea, but Gaspar would not have been his first choice. “Right. Shall we find a table?”

  “I have reserved a booth.” Gaspar gestured to the far wall, where a line of roomy padded seats surrounded small tables with drinks on them.

  “Good God.” They were all there, stuffed into the large corner banquet. The four Nightshades and Tim Noggy.

  Phaeton groaned.

  America squealed.

  Gaspar grinned. “The more the merrier—this is a birthday celebration, is it not? And should anything go wrong, plenty of protection.”

  As Phaeton approached the table, Tim shrunk behind Ruby, who looked ravishing in her namesake color. America slid in beside her. He glanced around the booth. “Shouldn’t you all be cloaked, or is that too stealthy for this evening?” Phaeton yelled over the dance beat. “Best to give the appearance of being up front—nothing to hide.”

  Gaspar sat beside Ruby. “Behind you, Phaeton.”

  Phaeton pivoted. His gaze traveled upward—then farther upward. There was a jutting jaw line, and deep set beady eyes under a heavy brow ridge—gnarlish features. Phaeton squinted. Neanderthal came to mind. Whatever it was, it was large and ugly. Customers in the bar were giving the creature a wide berth. Something vaguely reminiscent about this brute—a character from a childhood fairy tale, perhaps. He examined Phaeton then spoke. “Come.” The beast turned back and glowered at the table. “Alone.” Phaeton glanced back over his shoulder. America’s features were frozen with fear.

  The beast stomped up the stairs and out into the courtyard. The damp, cool mist helped sharpen his senses. Phaeton followed the hulking figure, covered head to toe in a long coat. They hadn’t taken more than ten brute-sized steps when the behemoth turned and entered a door marked EXIT.

  The giant swept down a narrow corridor and into a room at the end of the passageway. The room was small with a gallery of photographs hung on one wall and a number of very comfortable looking divans positioned about.

  Something about the placement of the furnishings reminded him of the room below the club—except for the gallery of photographs. Phaeton stepped closer for a better look. The images in the pictures—people mostly—were moving. Viewing another frame, Phaeton recognized the dance floor. “The Orchid Lounge.” His eyes took in the entire bank of moving images on the wall. The brute leaned over his shoulder. “That leggy beauty you came in with tonight and your moxy friends are in the second row of screens on the end.”

  Phaeton squinted at the image—there she was, chatting it up with Ruby and Tim. He turned toward the beast, who looked awfully amused. “What is this? Some kind of magic show?”

  “In a manner of speaking.” His escort didn’t seem so brutish anymore. A third hand reached out from inside the overcoat and unbuttoned the creature’s coat. A somewhat disturbing sight, until he studied the hands in the coat sleeves.

  “Appendages fashioned to look real but are . . .”

  “Lifeless fakes.” Something about the brutish man’s eyes—seemed familiar. “Velvet, would you mind?”

  Phaeton hadn’t noticed her standing in a dark corner of the room, but then succubi lived their whole lives in the shadows, and were rather good at making appearances when the mood struck them. Or when summoned.

  The coat came off to reveal the large brute was actually a smallish, gnarlish creature . . . on stilts. Velvet removed the long coat with the fake hands and hung it on a wall hook.

  Phaeton tilted his head. “This feels a bit like a circus trick.”

  The smallish brute unstrapped his feet and jumped down from the wooden blocks. “That’s because it is a circus trick.” Hardy for a small bloke, he gathered the stilts together and left them beside the coat.

  Phaeton blinked. “You’re a dwarf.”

  “Thank you for stating the obvious.” The small man stepped forward. “Victor Hugo Tennyson. Not related to the writer or the poet. And do not refer to me as Mr. Tennyson.” Flopping down on one of the low slung divans, he crossed short legs. “I am Victor. And you are Phaeton Black. Trustee to the greatest power ever gifted to mortals.” Velvet returned to stand close to the dwarf, who stroked her arm. “It seems you have quite a cross to bear.”

  The succubus smiled. “Good evening, Mr. Black.”

  “You’re looking radiant, Velvet.” He took a moment to admire the young siren, attractive even in clothes. “Any female, no matter how illusory, who has rubbed her naked bottom against my crotch, can call me Phaeton.” He shifted his gaze to Victor. “As for the Moonstone, it is a task I did not wish for—a responsibility foisted upon me by a deranged, ungrateful goddess. No doubt she was glad to be rid of it.” Phaeton took a seat opposite the dwarf. “I’d shirk the job in a second if could just find a way to . . .”

  “Duck out?” The dwarf raised a brow.

  Phaeton glared.r />
  “Ah, the reluctant hero.” Victor appeared entirely too entertained by Phaeton’s dilemma. “The young Jason embarks upon an impossible quest, fraught with harpies, hydras, and horrible beasts.” There was a momentary hint of longing in his eyes before the small man came around. “I understand you drink eighteen-year-old Talisker’s.”

  The lovely succubus brought over a bottle and two glasses. “If you’ll excuse me gentlemen, I have to undress and go to work.”

  Phaeton followed a sultry sway of hip as she exited the room. “A dangerous flirtation, Victor.”

  The dwarf poured their drinks. “Don’t I know it.”

  Phaeton leaned forward. “Have you found a way to—you know . . .” He rolled his eyes. “. . . That is, without getting the bloody life sucked out of you?”

  Victor handed him a whiskey. “We’re working on it.”

  Phaeton sensed a possible kindred spirit, at least in matters involving the penis. “Cheers.” He took a swallow and enjoyed the whiskey burn. “I understand that dwarves do not get the short shrift—between the legs that is.”

  The man raised both brows. “Shall we compare cocks?”

  Phaeton grinned. “Hard or soft?”

  Victor threw back his head and laughed.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  “ONLY I CAN UNLEASH THE SECRET POWERS FROM THE STONE—or so they keep telling me.” Phaeton swirled the amber liquid in his glass. “And here’s the rub—I have no idea how to access this amorphous aether. It’s rather comic; I control the power but have no idea how to use it.”

  “Or perhaps it is a kind of perfect genius. The man entrusted with the stone doesn’t know how to open it.” Victor grinned. “And what if I told you I can help you with that?”

  “You can show me how to loose the power?”

  Victor rocked his head, equivocating. “I think I can get you close—but there are others with knowledge of the stone. Gaspar and Lovecraft went to a great deal of trouble to have you captured and brought back to London—your London. And the moment you arrive the stone is snatched from under their noses.” Victor sipped his drink. “That should tell you something, Phaeton.”